


Uneasy Lies The Head

by commoncomitatus



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22001260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commoncomitatus/pseuds/commoncomitatus
Summary: Ferelden's new queen has a plan.
Relationships: Isabela/Anora Mac Tir
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	Uneasy Lies The Head

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hibernate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibernate/gifts).



> This was written about seven months ago, and was supposed to be a gift for the Secret Tomes Of Thedas exchange. Better late than never, right?

—

She has the pirate captain brought to her bedchamber.

A casual command, clipped and cool, and with a look that broaches no discussion. Discussion invites doubt, and she is not yet so comfortable — no, _they_ are not yet so comfortable with _her_ — that she can afford to indulge such a thing. The choice has been made, the order given; they do not need to know that their sly sideways glances play right into her hands.

She hopes the gossip will be appropriately crude.

Dark Rivaini skin, made darker by so much time spent under the sun. Dark eyes glinting with mischief, and perhaps a little with invitation too. A quick smile, sharp-toothed and keen, with only the faintest hint of something more serious underneath. Anora will receive no bow or curtsey from her, no simpering display of false adoration; the pirate leans against the wall like the chamber belongs to her. Perhaps like Anora belongs to her too, a little.

Not yet.

Anora stands. “I’ve heard good things about you, Captain...?”

An invitation, laid out simply, for a formal introduction.

It is, of course, declined. “Isabela.” The smile sharpens: hungry, perhaps a little predatory as well. “ _Just_ Isabela.”

Interesting, though not really surprising; there aren’t many in her line of work who would lay all their cards on the table; the lack of respect may be purposeful, pushing, but the honesty is refreshing. Anora acknowledges with a nod, and makes the concession.

“Just Isabela, then,” she affirms, and sits back down.

Isabela doesn’t do her the courtesy of returning the gesture. She looks around the chamber like she’s combing it for treasures. Jewellery, no doubt, or silverware; trinkets small enough to slip into her pockets.

If she thinks it will be so easy to steal from Ferelden’s new queen, she’ll sorely be disappointed. But then, Anora suspects Isabela holds no such delusions. She recognises this particular breed of hunger, knows it quite intimately herself. If Isabela had any interest in what was easy, she would have bent her knee the moment she entered. If she was interested in petty theft, she would at least be trying to show some subtlety. That she is standing so coolly, so calmly, speaks volumes about her interests. That she is looking around the place so openly, so _brazenly_...

That speaks volumes about other things.

“Nice view,” Isabela remarks, stepping away from the wall and sashaying over to the window, watching the sun stream in through the flawless glass. It’s a show, of course; the only view she’s interested in is the one she’s presenting, the cock and sway of her hip, the length of her stride. “Interesting choice of meeting place, I must say. Do you invite all your ‘guests’ to your bed?”

“Only the important ones,” Anora says steadily.

“Ooh, I like the sound of that.” Her eyes glitter, catching the sunlight. “I take it you’re aware of my reputation?”

Anora turns her face a fraction to one side, lets it find the warmth as well. “I’m aware of your _many_ reputations.”

She notes the shift in Isabela’s posture. Subtle, almost imperceptible: a loosening of her shoulders, a twitch of her fingers, a too-casual glance over her shoulder. She is unaccustomed to keeping her responses hidden, Anora can tell. Hiding her passions, certainly — it is no doubt a necessity in her particular position, with so many power-hungry men under her command — but not her responses. No doubt it serves her well on the high seas, letting the crewmen see a flicker of displeasure, of disappointment, even of pride.

“You realise people will talk?” Isabela says at last, curious but not especially concerned. “Ferelden’s new queen summoning the dread pirate whore to her bedchambers for a ‘private audience’? Think of the scandal!”

“Let them talk all they like,” Anora replies. “I’d much prefer a scandal about my private affairs than my public ones.”

“Ah.” The smile sharpens again as she turns away from the window, a different sort of hunger coming to the fore. “So you brought me here to, what, put on a show? A few shakes of the headboard, a few conveniently-overheard moans? Keep the servants gossiping about the right things?”

“Would that be beneath you?”

A laugh, somehow rough and sweet at the same time, sea-salt and warm wine. “Hardly. Though I should inform you — in the interest of full disclosure, you see — that it would be rather more enjoyable for us both if _you_ were beneath me. I do my best work from a good vantage point.”

“I’m sure you do.” If the ‘dread pirate whore’ expects a blush and a titter from the naive young queen, she will be sorely disappointed. “Unfortunately, however, that’s not why I summoned you.”

“Really?” The surprise sounds unexpectedly genuine. “Well, well. Now you’ve definitely piqued my interest, your _Majesty_.”

The sardonic emphasis — no doubt meant to disarm, to put her on the defensive — has no effect. Anora is long accustomed by now to people questioning her authority, poking and prodding and believing themselves subtle in the way their lips curve, a sneer for each syllable. She would have expected better, quite frankly, from a woman in a similar position as herself. But then, perhaps Isabela is making precisely that point.

“Are you testing me, Captain?”

“What if I was?” Punctuated by a cheeky grin. A seduction of sorts, masquerading as a threat. “Would you have me soundly punished? Flogged in public? Flogged in _private_?”

Anora quirks a brow at that. “Is my reputation so barbaric?”

“Sadly not.” She sighs. “Just wishful thinking, I assure you.”

Comforting, if crude. Anora is briefly tempted to respond in kind, to let slip a crude remark of her own, just to see if the fiery pirate can take what she so eagerly hands out. Tempting indeed, to push a little, to indulge the side of herself that was locked down and cast aside all those years ago. And perhaps she might yet do so, here in the relative safety of her bedchamber. But it is too early for such things, and ground rules must first be set down.

“You _are_ testing me,” she observes.

Isabela shrugs. The casual tilt of her shoulder is all the answer Anora wants, and far more than she needs.

“A good captain always tests the waters before setting sail,” Isabela says. “Wouldn’t you do the same?”

She would indeed. In fact, she often must.

“You’ll find no threat here,” she says.

Isabela laughs. “Oh, I don’t doubt _that_.”

A pointed remark, keen as the edge of the knife she likely assumes Anora can’t see, its chiselled hilt sticking out of her boot-cuff like a whispered secret. This, Anora can’t let slide.

“Unless,” she adds, a touch sharper, “ _you_ intend to threaten _me_.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” And just like that, the flirtation, the humour, the challenge are gone, replaced by a stoic, mostly-sober professional. “Lack of decorum aside, I respect you. Really. But I’m not going to bow and lick your boots just because your title is a tad more official than mine.”

Ah, yes, the ‘Queen’ of the Easten Seas. As far as Anora is aware, she claimed the name herself, a posturing threat to other would-be swashbucklers.

An amusing moniker, to be certain, though not quite as heavy as the weight of an entire nation. Still, Anora keeps that thought to herself, private and protected where it belongs. Isabela is not one of her subjects, no more than Anora will ever surrender herself to the seas and their ‘queen’. Any boot-licking in this room, on either part, would be a token, nothing more.

“I suppose,” Anora says, willing her face to give away no emotion, “you would have me call you ‘Majesty’ as well?”

A jest. At least, she hopes so.

“Maker, no!” And there: a laugh, raucous and crude. A jest, yes, and taken as one. “Just making sure you know where we stand.”

“I appreciate your frankness,” Anora says, rather more dryly than she would allow if they were not alone. “Now, if I may offer some of the same in return: I didn’t summon you here to warm my bed.”

“Of course you didn’t.” The ‘dread pirate whore’ does not seem especially surprised by the revelation. “But if they _think_ you did...”

“So much the better for everyone.”

“M _hm_.”

The slyness should grate; it does not. Anora steeples her fingers, watches as Isabela sidles back to the doorway. Languid, always at ease; she leans against the wall like it was made to support her. It is more of a challenge than Anora anticipated, keeping her eyes from wandering.

“The Hero of Ferelden spoke highly of your skill with the blade,” she presses on, pushing other thoughts to the back of her mind. “Very highly, as a matter of fact. She claimed your work was the finest she’d ever seen.”

“Not much of a compliment,” Isabela quips, “coming from a trussed-up noble. When she came to me, she barely knew which part was the blade in the first place.”

“All the more reason to appreciate the praise, then,” Anora says. “Given her talent at the Battle of Denerim.”

Predictably, Isabela preens. “I _am_ a good teacher.”

Anora folds her hands in her lap. “The best, or so I’ve heard.”

She leans back, then, head resting against the back of her chair, and lets that sink in. Watches the reaction play across Isabela’s features, colouring her skin like fading sunlight, like the patterns of the stars guiding her ship to its next exotic destination. Pride, of course, and a healthy dose of smugness; she would hardly have the talent Anora knows she does without it. Curiosity, intrigue, and the relaxed, easy self-congratulation of someone who believes they know much, much more than they actually do.

“Ah-ha!” And there it is: the presumption, the arrogance. So sure she knows exactly who and what she’s dealing with. A shame; Anora had hoped for better. “You want me to whip your army into shape. Ready your forces, your protectors, your—”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

She lets that sit. Steepling her fingers once more, watching, observing. The arrogance is gone now, in its place a sort of quiet concentration, focus, reevaluation. Her own presumptions, certainly, and perhaps Anora a little too. Her expression shifts, skin glittering in the sunlight, eyes narrowed as she thinks.

And then, after an absurdly long pause, she blurts out:

“ _You_?”

“If it took you this long,” Anora remarks, cutting but not cruel, “maybe I should reconsider what I’ve heard about you. My ‘protectors’ are the finest in Ferelden. My own skills, however...” The sigh that escapes is rather too honest for comfort. “Well. In my position, there are very few whom I can trust. A sentiment I’m sure you share, mm?”

“Not really,” Isabela says, a little too breezily. “I don’t hire anyone I wouldn’t trust with my life.” She cuts a not-so-brief glance at the oversized bed, its perfumed pillows, its decadence and richness and worthless beauty. “But then, I suppose you’re not so free to make your own choices, hm?”

“Something like that.” She will not display her shortcomings so openly, not even here. “In any case, I have a great deal yet to prove, and I would sooner not be distracted by fear of arrows at my back or knives at my throat. I have some passable talent in martial arts, but my quickness and dexterity require some work.”

“Intriguing,” Isabela muses, almost to herself. Then, back to Anora, “That’s why you chose to meet in your bedchamber?”

Anora tilts her head, only the faintest affirmation. “It seemed as appropriate a meeting place as any other.”

“M _hm_.” The self-satisfaction and smugness are back; this time, Anora relishes them, and the understanding they bring. “Didn’t want your untrustworthy servants knowing about this, eh?”

Anora tilts her head again, slightly deeper, slightly more open.

“I am not yet in a position to let my weaknesses show,” she admits, as delicately as she can. “And there are those who would question my desire to learn such things, even if I were. A queen may have her appetites, as you well know, but self-improvement?”

“Maker forbid!” Isabela cries, and laughs.

This time, her amusement is comforting.

“I would have you teach me what you know,” Anora says, in case it wasn’t obvious. “Make a master duelist out of me, if you can. Here in the privacy of my bedchamber.”

“While your servants gossip about your pirate whore?”

“While they’re so busy gossiping about my pirate whore they fail to notice what’s right under their noses.”

“Sleight of hand. I like it.” She’s grinning again, ravenous and flirty. “Well, then, in the interest of full disclosure, you’d best know that deception does the most _unspeakable_ things to me.”

“Good.” Anora does not shrink from her gaze, the heat in her eyes, the gleam of her teeth, the hunger. Smiling in return, she shows a little of her own. “Because I would like the charade to be... convincing.” She rises, and the words fall about her shoulders like the kiss of a shawl in winter. “Make of that what you will.”

“Creative license?” Another laugh, a little higher, and the faintest hint of a shiver. “You may regret that, sweet thing.”

“I may. Or I may not.” Isabela is not the only one who can twist meanings on her tongue; in this, if in little else, Anora has learned from the Orlesians. “Thinking outside the box, so to speak, got me where I am. Our arrangement may be somewhat different, but I have faith that it will prove equally… fruitful.”

Isabela quirks a brow. “Oh?”

“Mm.”

And that is all that needs to be said. Isabela crosses the room; Anora meets her halfway. No-one has drawn a weapon — yet — but their teeth clash like blades.

“Well, then, _Majesty_.” The title rings. A challenge, an invitation, a seduction. “Shall we dance?”

With an eye on the window and an ear to the door, Anora smiles.

—


End file.
